Shakespeare Died c. 1610

The ideas we toss around
Aren't worth retelling.
The woman who's speaking now
Wants only a good grade
So her tongue keeps a-flappin'.
I don't know why I come to class at all.
I usually can't even write poetry
Because--that, monotone. Rails on,
Spitting from a goatee or lipstick lips.
I pay no attention to the emptiness behind the curtain,
As a white page runs black with ink running
From ignoramacy. Why can't we admit
We're not here to learn, we're here to spit
Game, get drunk, high, get blown?
That one night can offer such youth
To waste, I am no spendthrift.
I'll be at bars tonight
With a beer and a posse of girls,
Then in some darkroom with a flaming bongo,
Extinguishing bonfires in my gut.
That's raging. Curing a hangover with a shot'n'a six pack.
Waking up and reminding your friends they were drunk idiots 10 hours
before.
And then you realize some faggot paper's due.